A New Kind of Normal
by starrysummernights
Summary: "You'll get bored." It had been John's only argument when Sherlock mentioned retiring, selling the flat and moving himself and John to the country, leaving it to the next generation of hopeless imbeciles to become consulting detectives and consulting detective's bloggers.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, darlings! This is a prompt fill for the lovely mattsmiths-booty over on Tumblr who asked for "retirement!lock Johnlock with lots of fluff, kisses, and cuddles."This will be a two-part story, and the second (and final) chapter will be posted in another week. I hope you like it!**

**Thanks for reading and the support :)**

* * *

"You'll get bored."

It had been John's only argument when Sherlock mentioned retiring, selling the flat and moving himself and John to the country, leaving it to the next generation of imbeciles to become consulting detectives and consulting detective's bloggers.

"I'm never bored with you." Sherlock countered, wiping down the countertop after cleaning up one of his experiments, earning himself a brief smile of approval from John before the doctor resumed their discussion.

"What're you talking about? You're _always_ bored-"

"With life, with cases, with…with _everything_. But never with _you_, John." Sherlock threw his dirty, stained rag into the sink (not where John had trained him to put it but he'd reiterate later) and crossed his arms, frowning. "Is that your only argument against moving to Sussex? My boredom?"

John nodded, feeling it was a reasonable objection. A bored Sherlock was a formidable force of nature. "It's an important decision to make, Sherlock, moving, getting a house. Uprooting ourselves from London. I just don't want us to get out there and settled and then for you to realize how tedious it all is and find out it's not what you wanted…"

Sherlock shook his head, making John fall silent, and smiled, stealing one of John's hands to pull him closer. He brushed his lips against John's, the simple caress never failing to elicit a brief shiver up John's spine no matter how many years it had been since their first kiss. Sherlock knew that, which was why he did it again, and again, artless pecks against those thin lips that were so very dear to him. He couldn't help but follow after those kisses with his fingers, brushing them against John's lips, smoothing the lines at the corners, tracing the wear so many years of laughter and happiness had left, knowing he'd put those there. The idea filled Sherlock with warmth.

"The very idea of the tedium of country life, when sharing it with you, makes the blood sing in my veins." He confessed in a hushed whisper against John's skin, kissing his slightly stubbly cheek reverently. "To wake with you every morning, spend each day with you, and fall asleep wrapped about you at night…day after day after day…that is my goal in life from now on."

John snorted softly, a bit disbelieving, and Sherlock drew back with a slight frown.

"I love you, too." John explained earnestly, "but…we could do that here. In the city. We don't have to go tearing off to Sussex for you to do that with me."

"But I _want_ to."

Long-fingered hands came up to cup John's cheeks and brilliant aquamarine eyes caught and held his own.

"We'd keep a _garden_, John, and bicker like an old married couple-"

"We _are_ an old married couple." John gently reminded him and Sherlock's face relaxed into a pleased smile.

"Yes. We are." Triumph vibrated in that small statement and John felt a beat of lust at the heavy look in Sherlock's eye. Yes, yes they were. Sherlock, however, was not to be deterred from his goal.

"We'd get a nice little cottage, one story, with lush green fields surrounding it where wildflowers grow and we could keep any animal or pet you wanted, John."

The "dog argument" had long been dismissed from John's mind, but the wish had never entirely faded, and at the mention of pets the idea started to insidiously creep its way back to the fore.

"I could keep bees, as many and varied as possible, and I could study them for as long as I wanted, every day."

John closed his eyes and let Sherlock's deep baritone voice weave the fantasy around him.

"Breakfast every morning with something fresh from the village and you'd nag me relentlessly to eat-"

"Oi." John protested, but without rancor, smiling, and Sherlock grinned, knowing he was winning his small doctor over to the idea. He'd known John would love the idea.

"There'd be tea in the evenings, sitting beneath the sky, watching the stars and mapping the constellations. Listening to the night noises…"

John had always loved the country, visiting his grandparents there during the summers as a child, and as Sherlock trailed off, he could almost hear the crickets chirping, the frogs croaking, and a cool breeze whispering delicately through the tall grass. Maybe he and Sherlock could lay on their backs, hands linked, and gaze upward at the vast universe that had somehow seen fit to bring the two of them together, against all odds.

"No cases." Sherlock continued seductively, pulling John into a loose embrace, resting his cheek against his head. "No running around at all hours of the night-"

"No severe injuries."

Sherlock smirked. "No heart attacks."

"Always said you'd give me one eventually. I was just proving a point."

"It was a point that never needed proving…and one I hope you never prove again."

John sighed, rubbing his nose in the hollow of Sherlock's throat, inhaling the familiar musky smell of his husband that would forever be an aphrodisiac to his aging body.

To be honest, over the past year, John had given serious thought to the idea of retiring from the hospital. He was of an age, and hanging it all up sounded so fucking _good_.

They hadn't been lying about old age, John had thought again and again- and with increasing frequency as he got older. Things started to go- slowly at first. Maybe you squinted a bit more at the telly, at the newspaper, the laptop, then suddenly you had glasses and the prescription just increased as the years went by. There were more grey hairs, fewer hairs (though John was pleased Sherlock had been spared that particular indignity of old age…he truly had a gloriously lush head of salt and pepper curls) in places there should be more hairs, and more hairs in places there should be less. John's joints ached, his shoulder pained him most of all, and Sherlock was convinced he himself could predict the weather based on his knees. It rained when the left one ached and snowed when the right one went loose and wonky-feeling. (John had informed Sherlock "wonky-feeling" wasn't a correct analysis and had been reminded Sherlock had picked it up from John in the first place. Well then.)

Then, earlier this year, John had suffered a heart attack. Not a major one, nothing debilitating, but enough to lay him up in the hospital for a few days, force a diet change, and scare Sherlock so badly the consulting detective had shouted at half the hospital staff, Lestrade, his own brother, and then finally shouted at John as he lay in the hospital bed, connected to beeping monitors and oxygen, before bursting into tears- surprising everyone- and angrily informing John that he wasn't _allowed_ to die before him.

It had been a horrible experience.

So, this country lark.

It all sounded fantastic, what Sherlock was offering, almost too good to be true.

Then again, John reminded himself, he'd thought it sounded too good to be true when Sherlock had first told him he loved him, when he'd turned to him at a grisly crime scene and blurted out "We should get married." And then followed through on that pronouncement, John trailing eagerly but bemusedly along behind.

Now, here they were: twenty years married, still as madly in love as the day they'd finally confessed to each other that yes, I love you too, I've been keeping it secret these last few years, sorry about that…and it seemed life was once again changing.

And, like all the other changes their lives had seen, they would face it as they always did: together.

"You really wouldn't be bored?" John finally asked. "Living that…_normally_?"

"You taught me to appreciate the beauty of so-called 'normality,' in all the infinite ways it can manifest itself." Sherlock replied truthfully. He'd never had normal, never had a "constant" in his life until he'd met John and the idea of continuing their adventure in the country, finally embracing "normal" (or thereabouts) appealed to him.

"Will you do this with me?" Sherlock asked solemnly and John realized that, really, there was only one answer he could give his friend, his flatmate, his lover, his husband. His life.

"Oh, god, yes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Fluff warning ahead! Bring your life raft :)**

* * *

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.

Such was a favorite saying of Sherlock's, oft repeated when cases or leads went in directions that left both John and himself flummoxed and reeling, sometimes laughing, sometimes picking bits of a dismembered person from their hair.

The same quote, John thought, staring out over his garden in which a strange, gangly, astronaut-clad older man was gleefully practicing the art of beekeeping, could be applied to this situation, to their little oasis here in Sussex. Life being infinitely stranger and all that

As a younger man- hell, even as a man in his mid-thirties- John had thought he knew how his life would be: Retire from the army and secure some surgeon job in London. Marry and have children. Watch with pride as his children grew up and realized their own dreams and ambitions. He'd eventually, as an old man, retire to the country with his wife, maybe with their youngest still living at home. Enjoy visits from grandchildren. Long, peaceful walks with his wife in the quiet hush of the evening. Die in bed, surrounded by those he loved. A simple, quiet, unremarkable life.

He'd thought, at the time, that it was a perfect life.

But life, as a certain flatmate-turned-lover-turned husband would one day tell him, is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.

John could never have envisioned the life he'd one day live with Sherlock. Ever. Not one second of it. If someone had told him that he'd eventually marry his best friend- his best _male_ friend- and flatmate, _after_ the two of them had solved numerous grisly, high-profile crimes together, John would've laughed at them.

Or punched them.

Now, watching his husband veritably dance from hive to hive with a grace that belied his years, surrounding by his beloved swarm, John couldn't imagine a life without the strange man he'd fallen in love with. He grinned somewhat dopily but refused to stop because he felt he'd earned the damned right to be as dopey as he wanted.

John leaned his head back, turning his face up to the sun, and closed his eyes, sighing contentedly and dozing off to the steady drone of bees.

* * *

The strange man with whom John Watson had fortuitously fallen in love with had been studiously scribbling in his notebook for the better part of the morning, observing his bees and ascertaining how his various experiments on them were coming along. Though, to be fair, Sherlock didn't do as much experimenting on them as everyone seemed to think. He was, for the most part, content with his bees precisely as they were.

They were fascinating.

He sometimes simply paused, quit writing, and just stared, transfixed by what he saw contained within those little kingdoms. _Fascinating_.

"How're your minions today?"

Sherlock jolted out of his thoughts, turning to find his John standing a safe distance away, sleep-rumpled and handsome. He smiled.

"How long have you been there?"

John shrugged, rubbing at his still-tired eyes. "A while. Just got off the phone with your brother. Said him and Greg were coming down later today."

Sherlock growled, stripping out of his beekeeping kit as he strode to John. "Must they?"

John smiled. "Behave."

"I always behave, John."

"Mmm." John hummed noncommittally. "I'm walking to town later to get some pasta and bread for tonight. You coming?"

It was a moot question. They both knew Sherlock would be coming, if only to make sure that John didn't expire on the short walk. His possessive attachment to John since his heart attack hadn't lessened, as John had thought it would, with their move to Sussex. If anything, it had increased. John knew it was a coping mechanism- and didn't say a word about it to Sherlock.

"I suppose." Sherlock replied, disinterested and grimacing.

"Good. You'll have to get changed first. There's no way I'm walking with you dressed like that. Everyone already thinks we're crazy enough after Mrs. Watterson told everyone about your poison garden."

"And your predilection for ghastly jumpers."

"What?"

"What? I didn't say a word, John." Sherlock replied innocently. "When was the last time you had your hearing checked?"

* * *

"One day, my shaggy-haired love, you _will_ go bald and I won't protect you from Mycroft's witticisms. They will be well-earned and entirely your due." John warned quietly as he and Sherlock reclined in their field, stretched beneath the stars, just as Sherlock had described all those years ago in London.

Their hands were linked in the cool grass, shoulders brushing, whispering to each other in the night air which was rich with the sounds of various insects and frogs. Above them, millions of stars shone down their sparkling light and many a night had found John and Sherlock in this same position, John pointing out to Sherlock each and every constellation, star cluster, lone star, and planet he had knowledge of, Sherlock quiet beside him, letting the sound of John's voice wash over him.

Tonight, though, after good food, good wine, and good conversation (for Greg and John at least) they were both too tired for serious stargazing.

"That won't happen, John. Mycroft's baldness is stress-related, not hereditary. If he had retired sooner he could have spared himself such…unpleasantness."

John snorted, shifting closer to his smug husband. Mycroft had unfortunately gone bald years earlier and it always amused John to watch Sherlock stroke and ruffle his own salt and pepper curls whenever he was around his brother, making sure to draw his eye to them. Sherlock ran his fingers through them, smoothed then down, twirled springy locks round and round and round his finger, allowed curls to flop into his eyes- in short doing everything in his power to rub Mycroft's face in the fact of his magnificent head of hair. Mycroft always looked particularly sour when Sherlock did this, but John just let him go at it. He'd learned, over the many years he'd known both brothers, that they showed affection by being dicks to each other. Why prevent Sherlock from telling Mycroft, in his own special way, that he still loved him?

"Greg won't be walking much longer." John said, giving voice to a thought they had both been thinking since seeing the couple walking up their drive. Mycroft's steps had been slowed to accommodate Greg's slow gait, assisted by a dapper-looking cane but he leaned heavily upon it. An accident before he retired from the force had resulted in a bad hip and it gave him a lot of pain.

Sherlock sighed, made no reply, and they lapsed back into silence again.

"Remember our first case?" John finally asked, his voice hushed in the silence of the dark.

"How could I forget?" Came the equally hushed reply.

"You were so handsome."

"_Were_?" Sherlock asked, sounding mortally offended, and John grinned, shoving at his shoulder playfully.

"Were. Are. Always. Don't be daft. You know you're handsome."

Sherlock shifted closer to John, pacified, and rested his curly head on John's shoulder. When John threaded his fingers through those thick locks that may one day be gone, Sherlock chuckled.

"If Mycroft loses much more hair he will resemble Mr. Clean."

"Who?"

"An American cleaning product spokesman, John, who happens to be very, very bald." Even in the darkness, John could divine Sherlock's smirk.

"And how in hell did you know that?"

"A case, before I met you." Sherlock shifted closer, melding their bodies together, as if the memory of life Before John left him cold. "Murderer who…" He trailed off, shaking his head and shifting closer. "You were insidious."

"What?" John asked, derailed, having been expecting a recitation of a case he hadn't heard of and preparing to be dazzled by his husband's brilliance.

"You. Our first case, John. You were insidious."

"Well, I did shoot a man." John agreed, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no. You misunderstand me. I _wasn't_ expecting you to do that, no, but I also wasn't expecting you to worm your way into my affections. You crept into my life before I was even aware of it- and all the while I was trying to keep you out you were settling in, making me fall in love with you."

"I wasn't even meaning to."

"That's the brilliant insidiousness of it."

John grinned before raising up, locking his elbows, and swooping down to kiss Sherlock. He coaxed Sherlock's lips open, sweetly licking into his mouth, and sighing at the beautiful, wonderful, well-known feeling. He sucked at Sherlock's tongue and lips, nibbled gently at them, and felt rather than heard Sherlock's stuttering sigh.

Through a growing haze of arousal, John felt Sherlock's fingers at his neck, at his wrist, and became aware of a distinct lack of attention being given to their kiss as Sherlock counted- _bloody counted!_- his heartbeats.

John pulled sharply away. "Stop that."

"John. Your heart has to be at-"

"_No_." John shut Sherlock up with another kiss. "I know about my heart and heart rate and I... No. We're not doing that. You...worrying about it all the time. I'm perfectly healthy, Sherlock. I'm not going to die in the middle of sex. I'd never live down the embarrassment."

There was that smile he was used to and John pried Sherlock's hands away from his pulse points, pressing him down into the grass.

"Idiotic git."

"Randy soldier."

"Consulting smartarse."

Sherlock's caustic reply would have been thoroughly on mark but he had a hard time speaking around John's tongue in his mouth.


End file.
